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This is a question Brits Abroad

Union jack shorts, bulldog t-shirts, bars named after soap operas, hen parties in Malaga. Tell us about your encounters with the worst (or best) of our fair country's travelers around the world. Alternatively, tell us about your own doomed quest to find a decent cup of tea in Moscow.

(, Thu 24 Apr 2014, 13:01)
Pages: Popular, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Some idiotic friend of mine thought three of us would have fun if we spent a week in Malia. Naturally we didn’t – a good omen of what to come was the first pub we saw being called the Rover’s fucking Return.
After a single day in the area, spent being barged variously by ‘OY OY’ bellowing pricks and dismayed pensioners, I’d had enough, and was getting ready to go off and find a place for myself in the hills so I could eat olives and whatnot and generally pretend I’m better than everyone else. But first a drink.

It was a deserted pub. I took a seat at the bar and waited for staff to appear. No-one was forthcoming. I coughed, scraped my chair ostentatiously, even whistled. Then just as I was about to leave someone walked up through the hatch in the floor.
It’s pointless saying this here, but she genuinely was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. And utterly charming. Her name meant ‘Happy’ in English. Her family owned the bar, and she was just working there until she could move to England. I stayed in that bar, alone, for the next six hours, being as brilliant as I possibly could until she agreed to meet me after her shift. But it was VERY important we be discreet, as behind all the Brit-baiting guff this was a very orthodox, religious community, and consorting with some package holiday oik would land her in a world of trouble. I nodded eagerly – anything for her. “Ok,” she said. “Meet me outside the church, two miles up the road, at midnight.”
I ran back to my apartment where my friends were shaving and all that cock, getting ready for a night of shots puke and AIDS. “I’m not coming out with you, you fucking cretins!” I bellowed joyously as I frantically brushed my teeth. “I’ve met someone, a real SOMEONE, not some scab-minged trollop from Burnley, a real GODDESS! And we’re going to BE TOGETHER!” And I shot past the losers and back out into the night.
By my reckoning I had an hour to find this church, so I set off on foot. I was very quickly away from the resorts and bars and hotels (our apartment was cheap for a reason), and after a mile found myself on a deserted road surrounded by fields. I was beginning to lose hope, when through the gloom I saw it – a beautiful, white house of god, sat nestled among a handful of villas with a stunning public square in front of it. No-one was about. I took a seat on a low wall, and waited.

Then the worries kicked in.
I didn’t know this woman. She’s already said she’s close to her family and very conservative. Why on earth is she interested in me? She’s way out of my league. And I’m a tourist. A lone tourist at that. A lone, drunk, tourist in an isolated place at dark … Hold on a minute. This is a fucking setup. That bitch and her Greek fuck brothers are going to mug me. SHIT. I must find a weapon!
I scrabbled around until I found an absolute belter of a rock. Like an enormous pumice stone, suitable for both stabbing and bludgeoning. I leapt over and crouched up against the wall, hiding, waiting, brandishing my lethal igneous club. “Those crooks have underestimated me!” I thought as I silently swiped and parried at imagined foes. “NOW who’s the mug?”
I heard a moped coming.
I peeped over the wall, ready to pounce and attack the marauding Mods. But it was just her. I watched her pull up in the square and glance around, puzzled. I waited for her backup to turn up. They didn’t. There was nothing for it – I had to take a chance. I rammed the terrible stone deep into my pocket, silently vaulted back over the wall, and swaggered up to her. “Just you then?” I said. I didn’t waggle my eyebrow knowingly, but I felt I should have.
Of course it was just her. And she seemed genuinely happy I’d turned up. Before I knew it, like some shit film we were locked in an embrace, kissing chastely in front of a church in a deserted Mediterranean street at midnight, and muttering a load of bollocks in two different languages. It remains to this day the most implausibly romantic scene I’ve ever been involved in, and for a moment, under the stars, I saw a wonderful future ahead of us.

And then it all went to shit.

She’d said she was conservative. She’d explained she was religious. We met at a church, for fuck’s sake. She was clearly nervous about all this, and I had to understand this was a slow burning thing. And I did. I had told her I did. I wasn’t going to rush anything.
So why the FUCK, she suddenly wondered, was I rubbing a hideously large, grotesquely girthed, implausibly firm erection against her minge?
She stepped away in fear and stared at me. Stared at my crotch. There was no hiding it – I was a monster. A whale-dicked abnormality. A threat to the virginal sanctity of the whole island. What could I say? “OH NO, IT’S NOT MY VIOLENTLY STIFF PENIS, IT’S JUST THE ROCK I WAS GOING TO BEAT YOU TO DEATH WITH”?
She was crying as she leapt back onto her moped and rode into the night. Dejected, I walked back to my apartment, went out with my friends, and caught chlamydia. Again.
(, Thu 24 Apr 2014, 15:17, 16 replies)
technically it wasn't "abroad", technically it was "the lake district"
but if you're a total rah who thinks anything outside zone 1 is roughing it, you might as well be abroad.

one summer when i was a child, we went for a long weekend in the lakes. we were minding our own business in a teashop, my brother and i fighting over his revolting habit of licking his finger and touching the cake HE wanted, when this terribly posh woman wandered in.

"ay say," she said to the girl behind the counter. "do you do cream teas?"

the girl blinked a bit. "no," she said after a minute's careful thought. "only milk."

the posh woman blinked back at her. it was hard to say which of them had puzzled the other more. "righty-ho," she said faintly, and swished back out again.
(, Fri 25 Apr 2014, 22:21, 4 replies)
On the way back from Spain...
...there was a couple who had quite clearly had a massive argument in the airport and when we were seated on the plane they were right behind us. I could hear her huffing and puffing for the short flight, but they didn't speak to each other for almost the whole journey, until he (trying to break the ice as we landed) said "Oh, look, rain drops on the window, must be raining in Bristol" to which she screamed at the top of her lungs "OH REALLY? WELL, THANKS FOR POINTING THAT OUT TO ME, BECAUSE I THOUGHT IT WAS SPERM"
(, Wed 30 Apr 2014, 16:47, 1 reply)
Well that sounded better in my head

On a shamefully drunken jolly high-powered business trip to Budapest, I had my passport stolen while I was in the hotel bar.

I remembered that I'd noticed a woman behaving in a suspicious way: she was wandering around, talking to men - particularly men in expensive business suits, rather than scruffy-looking gits like me. I also noticed her because she had the highest heels I've ever seen on anyone who wasn't a transvestite. It didn't take Poirot to work out that she was a prostitute, and apparently the barman was in on it as she conferred with him regularly.

So, it seemed likely that she had lifted my passport from my bag during one of her circuits. Perhaps the barman had distracted me at the key moment. Thankfully, the Hungarian police and British Embassy were all very helpful and efficient, and I had no problem getting home.

I had more problems when, without thinking, I casually mentioned to my wife that I'd had my passport stolen by a hooker in my hotel...
(, Mon 28 Apr 2014, 12:34, 1 reply)
What do you do when you miss the culture from home? I met a Pom who through force of will recreated it around him
Before the banks went fucked and the gringoes started pouring into Brazil looking for work in one of the few economies that was still rolling, you didn't get many ex-pats in Sao Paulo. A pommy mate of mine invited me out to an amateur rugby club to watch a match. He'd founded the club, and after an Irish mate had left, was the only gringo in a club of just Brazilians. Now it wasn't so much the fact that he'd got a bunch of Brazilians playing rugby that impressed me. But more so after the match the seventy or so Brazilians playing drinking games, singing rugby songs in English, I felt like I could have been in Wigan or Dunedin. He'd managed to recreate the rugby club drinking culture to a tee, and the Brazilians had taken to it like ducks to water.
(, Fri 25 Apr 2014, 6:28, 4 replies)
On my honeymoon in Greece, I dredged up my high school classical greek language skills to try to make vague attempts at conversation with the locals. One seemingly useful phrase was to point at my pretty, smiling wife and say to to waiters "my bride, she's a vegetarian" - We would then be regaled with laughter, great veggie food, and I often would receive free drinks.

Returning home, a Greek friend pointed out that, while technically accurate, I'd told half the service industry in Zante that "my bride is a herbivore" - which would explain the free drinks, and the laughter, and the stony silence for the next 6 months at home..
(, Thu 24 Apr 2014, 18:36, 3 replies)
Eh? You wha'?
My first trip to Amsterdam. Having procured weed, we didn't want to sit in the silly stoners' cafe, but instead fancied a beer in a proper pub.

We found a nice little bar, and piled in - the seven of us filled a substantial portion of it - and as I went to get the round, was instructed to ask if we could smoke in there.

"Can we smoke in here?" I asked.
"Depends" said the large barman, very cooly, rather stern.
"Er ... hash?" I enquired.
"Yeah yeah," he said levelly, "Depends - where are you from?"
"Er ... England ... ?" I said, slightly confused, "London?"
"London!" he suddenly beamed. The tension was completely gone, replaced instead almost by low camp, "Of COURSE you can smoke here! You want some munchies? I'm so sorry - I thought you were from Liverpool!"
(, Wed 30 Apr 2014, 16:27, 12 replies)
It's the lobster one - again
Some years ago I was working with a great bunch of guys who were the epitome of the 'work hard, play a billion times harder' ethos.
We'd secured a mahoosive contract to supply a large Danish company with some serious hardware and, as I was the 'Engineer' of the company it fell to me to be there when it arrived - fuck knows why, I wasn't doing anything to it but hey ho.
I'd been on the lash with the guys in the departure airport for quite a while when the flight was called and I was 'quite refreshed'. Luckily I was allowed on to the plane into first class, whereupon I was given more booze. And then more booze - rinse and repeat.
The plane was then diverted to Schipol - where I hit the complimentary (at the time - dunno if it's free now) first-class bar. An hour later, now 'heavily refreshed' I got on a plane to Copenhagen.
On bumbling out of baggage claim in Copenhagen I was at a loose end for a while until the car we'd re-booked could come for me.
I don't remember getting from Copenhagen to Roskilde. I don't remember booking into the hotel. I don't remember getting to my room.
I DO remember waking up thinking I'd got a Somali refugee camp in my mouth and a drummer's convention in my head. In my bleary state I looked for a familiar room landmark to let me have at least an idea of which country I was in. Luckily there was a brochure from the hotel on the nightstand next to a polystyrene box bound with blue tape that clearly I'd put there the previous night.
I opened it the box.

There was a lobster inside.

I looked again.

Still a lobster.

Where the fuck did I get a lobster? WHY the fuck did I have a lobster on my nightstand?
I had not a scooby, no frickin' idea.
I closed the box, went for breakfast and waited for my car to the factory, brooding on the fact that I had a/ clearly bought a lobster and b/ what the fuck was I doing with it?
I gave it to the hotel kitchen. They looked at me like I was a pissed Englishman trying to pass off a lobster to them - and they were right.
All was revealed when my lift came. It's not easy to raise the subject of random lobsters on your nightstand - to a man who has only just met you - but raise it I did.
Apparently there are lobster salespeople in Copenhagen airport who sell lobsters to travellers. I'd bought one and promptly forgotten, Thank god I didn't think it was a kebab!
(, Tue 29 Apr 2014, 6:54, 4 replies)
18-30 cunts are cunts
when i was 18, a gang of 12 of us went to kavos for our post-a-level celebration holiday (NOT with 18-30). when we arrived, the girls checking out of our little block of apartments said grimly, "welcome to hell," which was nice. it was a truly terrible place, so they were right on the one hand, but on the other, if you're on your first trip abroad without parents, with loads of mates, and you don't have an awesome time... you're a nob.

but my god there were some disgusting sights. people facedown in the gutter asleep at 8am, people running into the sea to vomit (ok that one was my friend SJ), the greek burger flipper who stuck his finger up my friend's bumhole and then casually carried on flipping burgers without even licking his hand clean, the girl in the queue ahead of me for breakfast who looked down at herself and said, "shit there's spunk all over this dress"...

however, the worst was about 10 days into the holiday, when we were really beginning to feel it. we all had kavos throat and could barely speak, and some of us hadn't slept for about 3 days. we made a big effort to walk all the way down to a quieter part of the beach for a recovery day in the sunshine.

then i spied it: a big raft floating out in the sea, away from all the plebs. it was quite a swim (i'm not going to claim honda accord, but you had to be a good swimmer) so only 3 of us decided to try it. fuck, it was further than we thought. and the current was quite strong. eventually we made it, and hauled ourselves up onto it. jo had helpfully stuffed some suncream in her bikini, so we slathered ourselves in it, and lay in the baking sunshine on the gently rocking raft, blue water and blue sky everywhere. bliss. one by one, we gossiped ourselves into silence and slept. until we were awoken by a deafening blast:


(to the tune of "i'm a believer"). fucking 18-30 boat. it was moored right next to us. slowly, sadly, silently, we packed up our suncream and swam back to shore :(
(, Fri 25 Apr 2014, 20:05, 7 replies)
Crown Cunts of Norway
I'm British, but while I was on the train from Oslo to Trondheim even I was horrifically pissed off by this one English family sitting behind me. They just wouldn't fucking shut up, and Norwegian trains have a similar level of conversation to the London underground.

Their children just kept talking, trying to pronounce every Norwegian safety sign within reach loud enough for everyone to hear, and of course mispronouncing every word in their horrible high pitched Surrey accents. Their mother kept commenting on the apparent bleakness (it was February and getting dark at 5) and telling her vile spawn how 'we need to remember to respect those worse off than ourselves' (Norway is the 3rd richest country in the world in terms of GDP).

Anyway, these ignorant bastards kept at it for the six hours until we reached Trondheim, but the carriage was saved briefly by someone shouting 'Hold kjeft fir helvete!' (shut the fuck up). Anyway, these cunts caught up with me as soon as they realised I was british in Trondheim station, and asked me 'Excuse me, can you please direct us to the nearest convenient car hire?' No fucking clue. 'Why don't you ask someone?' 'Oh, we've tried, but they all speak Norwegian.' you don't say. 'Most of these people speak English, you know.'

'But so do you.' Well noticed. 'So fucking what?' I was getting really impatient. she and her spouse looked shocked: 'Where we come from we don't use that kind of language!' I raised my voice, 'Where I come from people don't bring up their bratty children to think of 'us and them'. Most importantly, we don't let them act like cunts.' I then poured abuse at them, until I stormed out of the station to find the hotel. I could hear the children crying and the man getting indignant behind me.

Why can't brits just learn a bit about the country they're visiting and control their bloody children?
(, Fri 25 Apr 2014, 15:43, 18 replies)
Yes she is
Get it? Get it? Because 'brit' is a woman's name, and 'broad' is an archaic word for a woman. Lol, lol, puncunt.
(, Fri 25 Apr 2014, 15:40, Reply)
In my country, we do not do this.
Back when that bastard Icelandic volcano erupted, I found myself stuck in Hamburg - really fucking stuck. After countless hours milling around the airport terminal, BA finally decided to arrange hotel accommodation. Nearly two hours of chaos and confusion later, I was allocated a room in the decidedly shabby Hotel Ibis

At hotel reception, 100's of people in dozens of languages, harassed and harried the poor staff until finally, I was given a key and collapsed onto the only single bed in my room. I then attempted to take a shower in the piss-poor 'bathroom' - but of course, there was no hot water, as the hotel was full to bursting and everyone was attempting to wash at the same time. Cue 100's more people charging downstairs to harangue the poor receptionists some more.

I decided to retire to the bar.

A few strong lagers later and I was feeling slightly better about my situation. I didn't have to be back in Blighty urgently and after hearing reports from around Europe, I knew I was lucky to even have a hotel room. And then I met the lovely Anke. And things got even better.

We chatted for a while about our situation, amused ourselves debunking national stereotypes - for a German she was very funny and for a Brit I have perfect teeth - and generally passed the time, happy in each other's company. When the bar emptied, I let slip that I had a decent single-malt from duty free and suggested we retire upstairs to sample it. As we'd already complained about our rooms, she knew I had a single bedroom, whilst she'd been allocated a double - and we agreed there'd be far more room in hers. I was most definitely in.

I grabbed the Glenlivet, some ice from the machine and was at her door in less than funf Minuten! We chatted some more, really began to relax and then the moment arrived. I leaned over, ostensibly to grab another cigarette, and in one deft movement our heads were millimeters apart, she looked up at me, blinked twice and we kissed. So far, so good. But the lagers had caught up with me, so I gently pulled away and entered the wonderfully appointed Hotel Ibis bathroom. I'd almost started to piss, when my body told me a dump was also going to be required. So I dropped my trousers and began my completely not at all OCD 'away from home toilet ritual' - a simple, thorough cleansing of the seat, followed by the careful laying of a further 'paper seat' on top.

I looked for a towel, there were none. I looked for some toilet paper, there was none. Not even a fucking bath mat. The place was bare, save for Anke's unopened toiletry bag. I took a long look at the toilet seat, it wasn't too bad, plasticky and very worn...but not too bad. I ventured down for a closer inspection - and lucky I did, as sitting there proudly was a single, very dark and curly pube. No matter, I thought, I'll simply blow it away. So I bent down even lower and puffed at the nasty thing. It didn't move. So I crouched right down, head almost touching the seat and gave another, colossal lung-filled burst of air. Nothing. But I needed a shit! So I blew and I blew and I blew. So much so that I failed to notice Anke standing in the doorway.

When I did clock her, she simply stared at me, an English bloke sat on the floor, trousers round ankles and to all intents and purposes, sniffing hard at a toilet seat. Her eyes said it all. Her famous German humour deserted her. A quick flick of her head towards the door meant my opportunity had gone. I sheepishly pulled my trousers up and slipped away. There was no explanation I could give.

I never saw her again at the hotel. But I know she still tells the story of 'Ze English Seat Sniffer'.

And I thought all Krauts were pervs?
(, Fri 25 Apr 2014, 13:42, 56 replies)
As an Englishman, when on holiday I enjoy beach towels emblazoned with the German flag.
I get out to the poolside as early as I can, and get those towels right down on the deckchairs. Nothing amuses me quite as much as knowing that there'll be some terrible fellow Brits getting dangerously racist about the whole thing.

On the few occasions where they just have to pass comment, I reply (in flawless English with a badly affected accent) with an insult it takes them half a minute to distinguish from a compliment (the people who get angry about this sort of thing are usually very thick indeed).

I implore you... if you ever see some German flag towels, get them for your own holidays, as this never grows old.
(, Thu 24 Apr 2014, 14:07, 1 reply)
My brother had gone skiing in Austria with a group of friends, but ended up with a bad cold or flu or something so decided not to go on the slopes. One of the others offered to go with him to the pharmacy "'cos I speak German really well, like." So off they trotted. Once in the pharmacy my brother's friend loudly asked "Haven-zie gotten-zie coffen-zie mixture?", then stood, waiting to be served.
(, Tue 29 Apr 2014, 13:02, Reply)
When I go to The Continent, I like to learn at least a little bit of the lingo, out of politeness - even if it's just the "Please may I have"s/"Can we have the bill please"/"Thank you very much, your daughter is very skilled".
We were in Seville, at a self-catering apartment, and my flamboyantly homosexual friend and I went on a booze run. He thought I could speak Spanish, because I'd understood when the taxi driver had commented on how hot it was (albeit while indicating the thermometer reading on the dashboard and saying something like "Scorchio!"), so when it came to conversing it was I who did it, as he's absolutely terrified of pretty well anyone outside the clientele of the Admiral Duncan.

So I bought a case of beer, and matey bought several bottles of wine.

The friendly cashier said something to him in Spanish, clearly asking whether or not he wanted the bottles double-bagged.

My friend stared at the cashier in horror, and after several beats said loudly and clearly, and not a little shrilly, "AI'M TEYIBLY SORRY - I DEWN'T SPEEK SPANISH!", grabbed the bottles and ran out, without his change.
(, Tue 29 Apr 2014, 12:29, 3 replies)
Me and my dear wife went to Turkey for a long weekend.
We were enchanted by the beautiful beaches, sparkling sea and people spoke remarkably good English, if rather heavily accented. Keen to try out the local delicacies, we had a delicious kebab, very similar to what we have had back home, but had no luck in getting hold of any baklava for afters. Everyone just look blank when we asked for it in any of the local eateries, and we tried every possible pronunciation of it just to be sure, but no. Then we realised our mistake: we were in Torquay by mistake. How we smiled a bit at our gruel-thin sense of humour.
(, Tue 29 Apr 2014, 12:08, 6 replies)
Holiday reading
Most Brits when on holiday take a book or two to read whilst on the beach/by the pool. In most cases this is a harmless way of relaxing.

Depends on the book.

My advice - do not take a copy of a tome known as The Game. I went on holiday to Bucharest a couple of years ago and made the mistake of reading the above title.

Lost in a two year long haze of endless Romanian poon.

Help me.
(, Sat 26 Apr 2014, 9:11, 5 replies)
Some years ago, I was in Bangkok with a mate for a couple of days before we went island-hopping*. As luck would have it, our hotel had designated drivers who would show you round, all day, wherever you wanted to go, day or night for the equivalent of about 15 quid. We struck up with a really nice guy - Mr Yao a really good speaker of English who, once we'd let him know we were not interested in dodgy watches/suits/gold deals/hookers showed us some really great places in his home town. He even took us to the taxi driver's bar where we were probably among the very few white faces they'd seen in there.
On our second night, he took us round the bars of Patpong, explaining to the Mama San in each one that we were just there for a drink and a laugh so we weren't bothered by the hookers. Went into one sleazy joint with a horseshoe runway with poles along it, got our seats and watched the show.
There was a group of Manc lads** - about 6 or 7 - making drunken Mancunian arses of themselves (quel surprise) - almost slavering over the ladies cavorting round the poles.
Each girl was wearing a standard bikini with a large number badge on it, the Manc lads were calling over the girls by number, paying the Mama San and buying their girls drinks, getting lairier by the minute. Once they'd all picked a girl, had their drinks and started their tonsil hockey, they all left.
Mr Yao was crying with laughter, the Mama San was pleased as lots of her girls had made their evening's money so she came to sit with us. Between his laughter, Mr Yao translated the Mama San's explanation of his hilarity.

It was a ladyboy bar.
All of the 'Girls'*** were, in fact, men. The Mancs had paid for the evening's company of a bunch of trannies.

Cheered me up no end when I saw one of the aforementioned Mancs, looking sheepish at the airport the next day ready to board the flight to Koh Samui.

*It had been an ambition to go to a full-moon party on Haad Rin Beach. Done that now (I was probably the oldest person there)
**We could tell by the pastel polo shirts
***They may have been men but they were excrutiatingly pretty.

Tl:dr - manc idiots paid for tranny hookers
(, Thu 24 Apr 2014, 16:43, 7 replies)
The grass is not greener
Went to Sharm el Sheik expecting to be packed into a hotel with hordes of other angry sunburnt alcoholics but it turned out there were almost no Brits in our hotel at all, just Russians and Italians.

Turns out they're piss annoying as well.
(, Thu 24 Apr 2014, 14:47, Reply)
1998, I was in a nightclub in Rio,
a work colleague introduced me to a friend, who was extremely attractive, but pissed out of her face.

After a few minutes of pointless banter, she looks at me and says "You know, you English, you come over here and think you own the place. You're actually quite unwelcome here".

Slightly bemused, I reported the incident to my colleague who says "Oh, don't worry, she gets like that after a few drinks".

Anyway, to cut a long story short, me and the pissed girl have been married for 12 years now.
(, Thu 24 Apr 2014, 13:12, 3 replies)
Best T-Shirt I ever saw
was proudly on display, worn by a loud Scouser in a crappy bar, somewhere in London;

"When in Rome, act like a Cunt"
(, Thu 1 May 2014, 9:43, 3 replies)
Real Wives of Playas de las Americas.
Tenerife is a nice place to holiday. Fantastic landscapes (a goddam volcano for crap's sake), tropical wildlife, cheap booze, local colour and culture and if you go out of season, no hordes of scumbags from Peckham ordering 'Oi Pedro Facking Four Beers Here Now' of the local bar staff and refusing to tip.

The North isn't so touristy but our first go out there was late October in the South and there it was your quintessential lairy lads' paradise, a mile-long street of pubs/clubs/taakeaways (Los Christianos)which was thankfully ghost town like at that time of year. Walking on around the seafront Los Christanos merges into Playas de Las Americas, the very worst example of 'All Day Breakfasts/Free Shot per customer/Premiere League football on in every corner' kind of venues. Step back from the seafront and you get the hotel/apartment block zone, intersperced with some shiny shopping centres full of big label name shop fronts (Chanel, Versace, Louis Vuitton etc) and it is here you will find the Greater Leathered Middle-aged Expat Woman in her natural habitat.

Their mottled tan hide gathers in folds and wrinkles so as to better flap in the wind, plumage a uniform brassy bottle blonde and vivid colour streaks adorn their face as of someone shot in the face with a makeup bazooka. Large gold adornments around the neck, wrist and fingers show off their low natural tolerance for restraint or subtlety and their cry is that of a screeching baboon which some people have said sounds like human laughter. Their main diet consists of gin and cigarettes which they consume noisily in packs in open bar fronts next to their shopping area. Although fully capable of walking under their own power, these lazy wretches instead choose to use mobility scooters to transport themselves back to their apartment as the 200ft walk would require something akin to expending energy. This is apparently a trait evolved to avoid having to take a shower when they get home. See here closely, one of the flock doesn't have a mobility scooter, and so is bullied by the others into getting one despite having no need of it.

Something may have startled the flock as they quickly stub out their cigarettes and shoot off on their scooters, hooting and cackling in a line like some mahogany chain of convoy truck drivers, ignoring traffic instructions and depositing another layer of cholesterol inside their aortas.
(, Thu 1 May 2014, 8:38, 4 replies)
When in Rome......
for all of the shifty folks roaming the streets trying to hoover up stray tourists to 'Join our walking tour, jump the queues' we had to say, No Thanks politely one million times. For all of the walking salesmen trying to flog us umbrellas at the slightest hint of drizzle, we politely said 'No thanks' two million times. The last one was particularly ridiculous as the mobile vendors come so quick and fast it's like every 10 yards someone's stepping in your path and waving an umbrella in your face- if I didn't take it off THAT guy (10 yards behind) and THAT guy (20 yards behind), why would I get one off you?

But one particularly insistent bloke followed us alongside the queue offering us bot both a tour queue-jump AND an umbrella, at which point I did lose patience somewhat and explain loudly that being British, we INVENTED queueing and this (gesturing up at light drizzle) was NOT what I'd classify as real rain, thus I don't need an umbrella. Again, I explained, being British does involve having to put up with shitty weather and queues so I'm happy as a pig in much (typo *MUCK*) right now.

Raised a few chuckles with the other Brits in the queue. He gave up.

/Imperial arrogance.
(, Wed 30 Apr 2014, 17:27, 4 replies)
I'm really well-travelled, and also a very brave soldier with a sense of freedom and adventure.
I DESPISE package holidays, and am SO much better than people who go on them. I, like, speak all the languages in the world, and wherever I go the locals really take me into their hearts and love me, and like, I'm really accepting of their SWEET little cultures and stuff. I've eaten LOADS of different types of food, and totally think travel broadens the mind. I'm very spiritual, as well.

Basically, I'm waay better than you are, and if you go to a country and aren't immediately cognisant of the local language, habits, customs and food, then you're SCUM. SCUM. I HATE you. YOU'RE SCUM. I AM MUCH BETTER THAN YOU ARE, YOU HEAR?
(, Wed 30 Apr 2014, 12:10, 4 replies)
"Marbella's really close to Africa!"
My mate got a job in southern Spain so we went out there for a weekend of congratulations, drinking and tapas. On Saturday he pointed out how close we were to Another Actual Continent, so we decided that was definitely the mission for the next day: bus down to Algeciras, ferry to Morocco, see the sights, back to Spain again in time for the flight home Sunday evening.

It was a bad choice, therefore, to play vodka drinking games Saturday night. I took it the worst - I vaguely remember opting for double-or-quits three times in succession, resulting in an 8-shot punishment; I don't remember the debate over whether or not we'd have to pay for the hospital to pump my stomach. (They decided they probably would, so they didn't call an ambulance. Cheers.)

Anyway, I was the keenest to Go To Flipping Africa, so I tipped the others out of bed at seven in the morning and made us all run across town to make it to the bus station on time. We'd booked nothing and found there was a massive wait for the next ferry, so we stopped in Gibraltar for a full English breakfast. I was in no fit state to eat anything and could only force down half a slice of dry toast.

Eventually on the ferry, we found the Spanish ferry port's timetables were all on Moroccan time (because why not?) so we had another hour (maybe two?) to wait before it actually sailed. Lunchtime found us still on the boat and by this time I was starving, so we went in search of food.

"Oh sorry, no - we don't have anything. It's Ramadan."

Dammit. Never even thought of that. Literally the only food available for purchase was some overpriced chocolates in duty free, so we bought those and ate them far away from everyone else (outside on the top deck) in case doing so should offend the locals (we had no idea if it would or not, but better safe than sorry).

We ended up having exactly one hour in Tangiers before having to catch the return ferry. That was just long enough to find a cashpoint to get some local currency, ask a local what the currency was called and (vaguely) what that was in Euros, accept said local's offer of being a guide, go round the local market and pick up some tat to prove we'd been there, gaze longingly at all the closed food establishments, narrowly avoid having my wallet stolen, bribe someone to let us jump the queue at the ferry terminal, bribe someone else to do his job and stamp our passports, and bribe his friend to give us our passports back.

Worth it, but I've never felt more like a British nob abroad, and have never set foot in another country without doing some basic research first!

[Slightly off-topic now, but it turns out that if you learn the translations for "hello", "yes", "no", "please", "thank you", "excuse me", "sorry", "this" and "that", you can get by pretty much anywhere. If you open with a smile and, "excuse me! Hello. This, please; no, that", you can manage almost any transaction. And when you get stuck, just say "sorry" and revert to English and pointing. By then they're on your side enough to forgive you and help. Even in France.]
(, Tue 29 Apr 2014, 21:53, Reply)
I saw a bloke in Spain with his shirt off, showing a tatoo around his navel; it said 'Born and Bread In Wolverhampton'

(, Sun 27 Apr 2014, 16:48, 7 replies)
Gammon Ham with Pineapple Chunks
Normandy. The only region of France with weather as bad as the UK. I guess that’s why so many Ex-Pats feel at home here.

I pause to look at the menu outside the John Bull restaurant:

Gammon Ham with Pineapple Chunks.

I suddenly realise I’ve never eaten Gammon Ham with Pineapple Chunks. Not here. Not back home. Not ever.

“Ah!” I say out loud, “Gammon Ham with Pineapple Chunks, I guess this is a restaurant designed to appeal to British people.”

“Exactly!” chuckles the French waitress smoking a cigarette in the doorway.
(, Sat 26 Apr 2014, 17:50, 5 replies)
I am a Citizen of the Universe and a gentleman to boot, therefore my parameters are rather wider than this ‘fair country’ or indeed planet, solar system, galaxy, universe, dimension and time-stream.

I have, however, experienced boorish behaviour on holiday, the worst example being a bunch of Sontarans that were enjoying some shore leave on the pleasure planet of Florana.

Sontarans generally are no problem. You know where you are with them. They are obsessed by war, and as long as you stay away from their many theatres of conflict, you’ll be fine. When you encounter them off-piste, though, there can be problems.

This happened during one of my female incarnations, when I was a tall, ivory-skinned, green-eyed, copper-haired goddess. I was on the rebound from a particularly bruising love affair (full story here: www.b3ta.com/questions/breakingup/post2089317) and so had checked in to the Hotel Magnasplendos on Florana for a few weeks of much-needed R&R.

Unfortunately, so had a troop of Sontarans.

I first became aware of their presence in the small hours of the morning on my second night. I was rudely awoken by a rhythmic thudding from the room above, a stomping so heavy that the whole ceiling shuddered and flakes of plaster detached and drifted down onto the bed. As I lay there grinding my teeth in anger the sound of singing penetrated through the shuddering stomps. ‘SONTAR-HA! SONTAR-HA!’, I heard.

‘Sontar-CUNTS,’ I thought, swinging myself out of bed.

Clad only in a short pink silk nightie I stormed out of my room and walked up the stairs to the next floor, quickly locating the source of the disturbance: a suite of rooms usually reserved for business conferences. I pounded on the door until someone – or rather something – some Sontaran – answered.

I smiled sweetly. ‘Do you mind keeping the noise down? I am trying to sleep.’

Piggish, red eyes burned deep within the Sontaran’s potatoey head. It snarled at me, and then turned away. ‘This puny HUMAN wants us to be quiet!’ it roared. ‘What do we say to that?!’

About a dozen Sontaran voices bellowed back, ‘Sontar-FUCK OFF!’

With an incongruous, disconcertingly prim smile, the Sontaran slowly and gently closed the door in my face.

‘Sontar-bollocks,’ I muttered, returning to my room to pass a very poor night’s sleep indeed.

The next morning, over breakfast, I glared at them angrily as I tucked into my bacon, sausage, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms and fried slice, but they ignored me. Even worse, they proceeded to break wind thunderously all throughout breakfast, to the clear disgust of all the other guests. I don’t know if you have ever smelt Sontaran farts, but they are the worst in the entire known universe. The smell was so bad, I thought at one point that I was going to regenerate. How to describe it? Imagine a big pit dug in the middle of the desert. At the bottom of the pit, 125 dead dogs. On top of them, a layer of camel shit. On top of that, a layer of fish. Any fish, it doesn’t matter. On top of that, a layer of vomit. On top of that, a layer of Stilton cheese. And to top it off, a layer of hard-boiled eggs. Simply leave for three weeks in the burning, broiling sun, and the resultant odour will be similar to, though not nearly as bad as, a Sontaran anal emission. Sontar-POOER.

After a particularly potent guff I shoved my plate away and strode up to the leader of the troop, Commander Stor.

‘I’ve had it up to here with your immature, inconsiderate behaviour!’ I screamed. The Sontarans all roared in laughter.

Stor stood up and got right in my face. ‘And what do you propose to do about it, puny human?’ he said in his incongruous Cockney accent.

Twelve pairs of Sontaran eyes stared at me and my indignant heaving bosom. As Sontarans were sexless, I couldn’t even try to seduce the non-fuckers. ‘Well, for a start, I am NOT human,’ I began.

‘Yes, you are!’ bellowed Stor. He pointed at my throat with a stubby three-fingered hand. ‘You are a puny female human, going by the construction of your thorax!’

‘That’s beside the point,’ I went on, but my words were drowned out by Sontaran jeers and catcalls. They then began a food fight that ended up like something out of a Laurel and Hardy film.

I complained to the maitre’d, a charming elderly Draconian going by the name of Valdrax, but he informed me solemnly that this particular troop of Sontarans had just won a strategically important battle, and were entitled to let off a certain amount of probic vent steam on their well-earned their shore leave. Moreover, Sontaran High Command paid the Hotel Magnasplendos handsomely for the ‘honour’ of hosting such an esteemed troop of Sontaran ‘heroes.’ So it was like it or lump it for us poor civvies.

So lump it I did. Sontaran behaviour I had to endure included:

- Projectile vomiting from their balcony onto the sunbathers below – which included me. I’ve already described Sontaran farts, I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions about Sontaran spew.

- Eating the hotel cupboards bare, and drinking its bar dry.

- Incessant vandalism of every single object they came across.

- Singing and stomping throughout the small hours every single night.

- Blockage of toilets leading to complete failure of the hotel plumbing system.

- Scrawling pro-Sontar graffiti e.g. ‘FUKK RUTAN CONZ’ and ‘PUNEY HUMANZ R PUNEY’ and ‘SOTARANZ ROOL THA UNEVERSE’ absolutely fucking everywhere.

- Murdering of a bunch of holidaying Slitheen, but to give the Sontarans the benefit of the doubt, they were greatly provoked and the Raxacoricowhateverthefuckitisian cunts were asking for it.

It all came to a head when one night they decided to start lighting each other’s farts, and blew up half the hotel. After this, Valdrax asked them politely to leave, and they killed him, running him through with a broken curtain rail!

At this I confronted them, this time managing to assert my Time Lord identity, and vowing to bring Time Lord vengeance down upon their sorry Sontaran asses. This did not go down too well and there was an altercation, which I barely escaped. I just about made it back to my TARDIS. On reflection, this incident was probably what prompted Commander Stor to lead the Sontaran invasion of Gallifrey, the so-called ‘Invasion of Time’.

Sorry about that. But they really were a bunch of annoying clone cunts.
(, Fri 25 Apr 2014, 21:43, 13 replies)
When I lived in Tianjin, an hour from Beijing
There were a few Irish bars. One day I went to one and there was a drunk Scottish bloke in double denim, white socks and trainers, getting the staff to play "Loch Lomond", "Sailing" and "Caledonia's Everything I've Ever Had". Now I'm as Scottish as a kilt-wearing crap-at-football whisky-soaked haggis, but... when he came up to yabber drunken shite at me, I pretended I was English.
(, Fri 25 Apr 2014, 11:31, 7 replies)
I've been in the USA for about 6 years now
Most spectacular fuck up I can think of, is wondering why everyone referenced Incredible Debbie, when my wife was buying stuff.

After a few months understanding the accent, turns out they were saying 'credit or debit?'

Yeah I felt like a tit. Other than that, I look a chump counting out dollars as they all look the fucking same, have been told to 'fuck off back where I came from' by amusing rednecks, and found the local hippie grocery sells Crunchie bars which is nice.

Had one face tatted skin head ask me about 'the white mans struggle' in the UK, so I made up a bunch of lies about how everyone has to read in Urdu now, all road signs are in Arabic, and the kids have to read the Koran in school instead of the King James Bible. Daft cunt cried a racist tear.

Also portions are far too fucking big, and the chocolate and bacon is shite.

The reams of medicinal cannabis (MASSIVE DRUGS!) and the fact my town only has 6000 odd people in it, and the weather, and my mother fucking salt water pool, 5.79377274 × 10^20 liters worth of salt water baby is well huge (..well OK its the pacific ocean, but that counts right?) make up for it tho.


Last year I got hit by a car for looking the wrong way when crossing a 4 lane highway whilst drunk, on a mission to score more beers from the local garage. Do not like these massive roads.

I defaulted to the Green Cross Code and took a Chevy to the mid section. Still made it home with the beers tho, pretty sure it bruised something important.
(, Fri 25 Apr 2014, 0:40, 10 replies)

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